


Kintsukuroi

by Quixoticity



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Christmas Eve, Derek is a Christmas Baby, Derek is a Softie, Derek is insecure too, Everyone is insecure basically, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Insecure Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Smut, Stiles Stilinski Has Low Self-Esteem, Stiles Stilinski Has Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 05:40:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13264869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quixoticity/pseuds/Quixoticity
Summary: The last few years in Beacon Hills have left scars on Stiles, in more ways than one.It's not until he leaves for college that he realises how much they separate him from the rest of his peers.He has to hide his nightmares, his scars, his past. He doesn't feel like he belongs. He's out of context.When he goes home for Christmas, he finds himself at the Hale house.Because maybe, after everything... improbably...impossibly... it's with Derek that he finally feels he makes sense.





	Kintsukuroi

**Author's Note:**

> This is based, loosely, on my own experience of anxiety and insecurity. I appreciate that it's different for everyone. Stiles is reconciling himself to the fact he has scars, and at one point he overhears other people speculating about what might have happened to him, so please be warned if you might find that at all triggering. 
> 
> This fic has been sitting in my folder for like a year and I guess it's sort of kind of still Christmas-time, if you look over your shoulder and squint a bit? I'm not totally happy with it, but here goes anyway :)

Stiles turns the key in the jeep’s ignition and waits as she shudders to a halt. The echo of the throaty engine rings out in the space around the car until it’s eventually replaced by familiar ambient noise; the soothing rustle of wind through leaves, and the airy notes of twilight birdsong. It’s noise Stiles wouldn’t have noticed, once upon a time. Now he automatically listens, hoping his human ears will catch any hint of discord, any slight sound of danger. 

Right now everything sounds safe. Familiar.

The house is familiar, too, even though it’s changed a lot since Stiles last saw it. Right before Stiles had left for college, Derek had been working on the balcony on top of the roof, swinging himself up the three stories of his family home as easily as a kid swings over monkey bars at the playground.

Well, maybe easier than that; Stiles was never all that good at monkey bars, truth be told. 

Derek had come back to Beacon Hills during the summer following Stiles' second year of college, this time knocking at Stiles' front door instead of climbing in through his window. They'd hung out pretty often while Derek worked on the house, usually with Scott and sometimes Lydia. And then it had been Stiles' turn to leave. In the few months he’s been absent, Derek’s finished the balcony and has been working on the long, low porch that stretches out along the front of the house. Even from inside the car, Stiles catches raggedy notes of fresh varnish on the breeze. Derek must hate it. The thought makes him smile, a little. 

He doesn’t move to exit the car. He doesn’t even move his hands from the steering wheel. He just sits, and breathes in the paint-and-pine scented air, soaking it all in. It’s all so familiar, and so new, and so complicated, his chest aches with it. 

After several minutes, the front door opens, and a figure appears, arches an oh-so-familiar eyebrow at Stiles and then disappears back into the house, leaving the door open.

Stiles grabs for his battered rucksack and slides from the car. He doesn’t bother to lock it; Derek is better than any alarm system, and anyway he defies anyone else to coax the car’s stubborn engine to life. 

The give of the earth under his chucks is welcome after months in a concrete city.

The steps up to the porch are new and smooth, not buckled and warped any more. Stiles still takes them gingerly, and slips into the house. 

He closes the door behind him, glancing around. The walls are newly finished and painted but unadorned with any pictures. It’s a little dark in the entryway – Derek’s supernatural eyes don’t require as much light as Stiles’ – so Stiles follows the pool of light spilling out from a doorway off to the end of the corridor. 

The kitchen is bright, light bouncing from one polished, stainless steel appliance to the next. The contrast from the gloom of the entryway makes Stiles blink several times, but once he’s adjusted he finds he’s pleasantly surprised by the room, which is immaculate yet warm, with a large wooden table and chairs off to one side. Derek sits at the table, angled slightly towards Stiles, watching him over a mug of something steaming and fragrant. 

‘Heeey, Derek,’ Stiles says, aware of how incredibly insufficient it is as a greeting. 

‘Stiles.’ Derek is as inflectionless as ever – which is as frustrating as ever. 

‘Sorry to come by without calling. Uh, sorry for not calling at all, actually.’ Stiles hunches his shoulders awkwardly, not sure that there’s a way to explain the number of times he’s pulled out his phone over the last few months, or how long he’s spent staring at Derek’s pixelated name on the screen. In the end calling had always felt like far too much, and not nearly enough.

So now he’s here.

‘It’s okay,’ Derek says, one corner of his mouth quirking ever so slightly. He’s wearing a comfortably worn-in red swearer with thumb holes, and he clearly hasn’t done anything with his hair because it falls feathery over his forehead, just a little. It softens the precise angles of his face, somehow. Stiles can’t stop looking at him, this man who is just as familiar and new and complicated as the house, and the Preserve, as Beacon Hills itself. 

Derek doesn’t baulk under Stiles’ stare. ‘Drink?’

Stiles startles a little and tries to get a hold of himself. ‘Sure.’ He rummages in his rucksack and produces a Tupperware box. ‘I brought cookies. Uh, Christmas cookies. Because it’s Christmas. So. Here.’ He thrusts the box towards Derek, who takes it carefully. 

‘They smell good,’ Derek says, without opening the box. 

‘You think?’ Stiles says, breathlessly pleased. ‘I made them. Hate them, though. Can’t stand aniseed.’

Derek’s brow furrows as he looks from Stiles to the box of cookies and back again. ‘You made cookies that you hate, and then you brought them to me?’ 

Stiles’ face scrunches up involuntarily as he yanks the sleeves of his plaid shirt down so they cover his wrists more fully. ‘They’re anise pierniki. My mom made them every Christmas. And now, so do I. But I don’t eat them and my dad can’t have many, so I thought maybe you’d like them.’

‘Ah.’ Derek nods, and then stands. Stiles is grateful he doesn’t look at him because he’d be sure to see Stiles’ burning cheeks. There’s no way he missed the tremor in Stiles’ voice. Stiles wonders exactly how stupid Derek thinks he is, on a scale of one to ten. He’s probably invented a whole new scale, just for Stiles. He’s probably-

Oh. His brain nopes right out as Derek wraps a heavy arm around his shoulders and drags him in for a one-armed, ungainly, amazing hug. ‘Thanks,’ Derek murmurs into his hair, sending a delicious little shiver all the way down Stiles’ spine. 

‘S’okay,’ he croaks back, as Derek releases him. His skin breaks out in goosebumps as the chill air hits it.

‘You want some eggnog?’ 

‘You have eggnog?’ Stiles looks around, but can’t find any other indication that it’s Christmas Eve – not one bauble, no strands of tinsel, no jaunty Christmas music - so he’s surprised at this one concession.

Derek shrugs, and yanks open the fridge door. Stiles is oddly fascinated to see yoghurt in there, and leafy things, and avocados. He’s not exactly sure what he was expecting – squirrels or something, maybe. ‘I made it,’ Derek says, pulling a jug out of the door. ‘I, uh. I hate it, actually, but it was my Mom’s favorite at Christmas. No wolfsbane. She just liked the taste of rum.’ His voice turns soft and tender. 

‘It’s a nostalgic time of year.’ Stiles bites down on his lower lip to suppress whatever emotion is threatening to bubble over. Derek gets it. Deep down, Stiles thought that maybe he would. He manages to say ‘Eggnog would be great, thanks,’ and sound relatively normal about it. ‘You’re not gonna lecture me about underage alcohol consumption?’

‘Sure, ‘cause you’re tea-total at college?’ Derek shoots back. 

‘You know me,’ Stiles says primly. ‘Never broken a rule in my life…’ 

Derek rolls his eyes and pours him some eggnog, topping up his own tea, and then wraps his hands around the warm mug as he leans back against the counter top to look speculatively over at Stiles. 

‘You look tired,’ he says, in his straightforward way. 

Stiles hums as he perches on the edge of the thick wooden table. The eggnog is good, rich and spiced. ‘Do werewolves even look tired? Like, can you get ridiculous eye bags or does your mad werewolf healing kick in to ensure you’re always stupid-hot? Is it like a biological mating thing, or what?’

Derek raises his eyebrows, undeterred.

Stiles sighs. ‘Fine. I’m a little tired. Nothing I can’t handle. It was a rough last week of school, is all.’

‘Where’s Scott? Figured you guys would be joined at the hip while you’re home for the holidays.’ Derek doesn’t sound mad or offended or anything, just curious. 

‘Well,’ Stiles clears his throat. ‘Scott’s actually away this Christmas, visiting his girlfriend’s family. And my dad has night shifts this week. Lydia’s skiing in Aspen.’

Derek smirks, and there’s something a little bittersweet about it that Stiles doesn’t like. ‘So you wound up here?’ 

‘I heard Cora was still going to be in Fiji. I… thought you’d be alone, too. I thought… We could be alone, you know, together…’ Stiles says, then winces because it wasn’t all that great in his head before he said it out loud, but it came out so much worse. 

To his surprise, Derek tips his head back and laughs. Stiles feels it in his stomach, like the flutter of butterflies. 

‘I could have had a date,’ Derek says with a flash of white teeth. 

‘Oh.’ Stiles honestly hadn’t considered that. Somehow he’d just known Derek wouldn’t. _‘Do_ you have a date?’ 

‘No.’ Derek takes a sip of tea, gaze sliding to the treeline silhouetted through the window against the setting December sun.

‘There you go, then.’ Stiles tries to sound confident, even though he feels anything but. 

Derek tilts his head and blinks. It’s such a lupine gesture that Stiles’ hands twitch with the suppressed urge to hug him. Those pale, pretty eyes rake over him, searching for something, and seem satisfied in the end because Derek nods with a small smile, and says, ‘Okay.’ 

Stiles is counting it as a victory. He grabs his bag. ‘Excellent. I brought quality viewing material!’

Derek’s face immediately falls. ‘Oh no.’

‘Oh yes!’ Stiles grabs his eggnog and bounces in the direction of the living room in search of the television he’d previous bullied Derek into buying, Derek trailing behind, the box of cookies in one hand and a bag of chips for Stiles in the other. He comes to a halt in the middle of the large, bare room. There’s a brand new couch that looks like it’s never been used – Stiles would have been working on one hell of a butt-groove by now – and that’s about it. No television. 

‘Uh…’ He says, eloquently. It hadn’t occurred to him that Derek might have gotten rid of it altogether now he doesn’t really have a pack any more. If he’d known he’d have brought his laptop, or some sort of back up, because what the hell are he and Derek going to do without a screen to occupy them both? Talk? Because Stiles could talk for hours, obviously, but Derek isn’t exactly known for being the world’s easiest conversationalist and-

‘Don’t panic. TVs in the bedroom,’ Derek says from the doorway, which doesn’t actually do much to reduce Stiles’ internal freak-out because holy shit, Derek’s bedroom.

He stands, frozen, as Derek disappears down the dark corridor. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to follow or if Derek’s going to pick the thing up and carry it back downstairs, but he’s not willing to guess. Derek might not be an alpha any more but that doesn’t mean you go wandering into a werewolf’s inner sanctum without an explicit invitation. 

Derek’s footsteps pause mid-way up the stairs. ‘You coming, or what? I don't bite. Not often these days, anyway.’

Stiles can’t hold back his grin. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I’m coming.’ He scrambles for the stairs and follows Derek, who has thankfully turned on the light in the room that must be his.

Stiles hovers awkwardly at the door for just a second before working up the courage to cross the threshold into _Derek freaking Hale’s bedroom,_ a place that’s featured heavily in Stiles’ private happy-Stiles time since he was sixteen, even though he’s never actually seen it before. In fairness, Derek hasn’t actually had a bedroom for most of that time, just a hidey-hole in a subway car and then a platform in a loft. But this is the bedroom in his family home, intimate and private, and Derek is letting Stiles in like it’s no big deal at all.

It’s not quite the slick bachelor pad he’d expected. The room is much more lived-in than the rest of the house, with a dark wooden bed that’s made but not very precisely. A worn, patterned blanket is spread over the bottom of the bed. It looks old, and Stiles wonders whether it’s something that’s survived from Derek’s childhood. There’s a chest of drawers and a cabinet with the tv on top, and next to it is a pile of clean laundry which hits Stiles in the chest with feels for some reason – maybe because it’s the most domestic thing he’s seen about Derek’s home, so far. 

Derek’s over by the tv, messing with the remote to try and get it to turn on. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be doing this?’

‘Sure. Yeah. Sure.’ Stiles dumps his rucksack by the foot of the bed and goes to take over. Once it’s all set up, and his phone is plugged in to the USB socket he turns to find Derek sprawled out on one side of the bed - _Derek freaking Hale’s bed_ \- eating a cookie. His stubble is gorgeously long and thick and runs right over the angle under his jaw that Stiles very much wants to nuzzle his face into (he’s fairly sure he’s been running with wolves for too long) and the combination of Derek and food is so unfairly sexy all Stiles can do is gape for a second before getting his shit together enough to motion to the bed next to Derek. ‘Can I sit there?’

Derek’s forehead crinkles. ‘You’re welcome to sit on the floor if you’d rather. Not a whole bunch of options, other than that.’ 

Looking at Derek's long, lean form stretched out on the bed, Stiles can think of a few other options, honestly. He clears his throat. ‘No, no, yeah. This is good. This is awesome.’ Stiles jumps onto the bed, hoping Derek can’t, like, sniff out his lustful thoughts, or some such freaky werewolf shit. He arranges his limbs, then rearranges them. Derek is a solid line of heat at his side, the tendons in his throat working as he chews the cookie that Stiles made, slow and casual. Stiles feels distressingly like his awkward, gauche sixteen year old self, in comparison. But of course, Derek is used to being in Stiles’ bedroom. Plus Derek is older, cooler, more experienced. And he also doesn’t reciprocate the heart boner that Stiles has had for him for half a decade, now. So there’s that. 

Luckily – unluckily? Stiles doesn’t know – Derek is as oblivious to it now as ever, breaking Stiles’ train of thought with a dubious, ‘Is this another one of your ‘check your higher brain function’ at the door movies?’ 

Stiles laughs and rolls his eyes at himself. Half an hour ago he’d had no qualms about watching a movie with Derek on a sofa somewhere – well, not very many qualms, anyway. Nothing’s changed just because they’re on a bed. Derek has let him into his house – into his room – onto his bed – and is eating his food without question, like he trusts him, and Stiles will one hundred per cent take that. 

He leans forward and shoves a handful of chips into his mouth. ‘Abso-fuckin-lutely!’ 

They settle down and fall into silence as Transformers: Age of Extinction, starts up. It’s another thing that’s familiar and new, this silence. The air between him and Derek used to be so tense, so charged, with Derek always antagonised and Stiles always extra antagonistic to cover up the fact he was a little afraid. Now the space between them is comfortable and worn-in, like Derek’s sweater, and Stiles wants to curl up in it and stay there.

He wonders if Derek turned the heat up a little to accommodate his lower body temperature because the room is surprisingly cosy – too cosy, really, but there’s no way Stiles is shedding any of his layers, he doesn’t do that anymore – and the comforter is squashy and soft. The spices and the rum in the eggnog stoke a warm little furnace in the pit of Stiles’ belly, and Derek is barefoot and he actually has really nice feet, which is a weird thing to notice because Stiles has never noticed anyone’s feet before, but Stiles sort of wants to kiss the arches of them or the delicate looking whorls of his ankles. He manages to shelve those thoughts for later, in favour of wiggling his ass further into the warm embrace of the pillows and pulling his feet up underneath himself.

He watches Derek more than he watches the movie, drinking in the play of light across his cheekbones. Derek either doesn’t notice or he kindly ignores him. He must be used to people watching him, for one reason or another. 

'The house looks great, by the way,' he ventures.

'Yeah?' Something flickers across Derek's face. It looks a lot like disappointment.

'Yeah. You don't think?'

Derek shrugs and exhales, long and low through his nose. 'I don't know. It's empty.'

Stiles heart constricts painfully in his chest. 'I'm sorry.'

Derek tips his chin up a little. 'I'm starting to think that no matter how many people are here... this house might always feel a little empty. I'm okay with it.'

After a while, Stiles feels ballsy enough to quietly ask, ‘You don't mind, then?’

‘Mind what?’ Derek keeps his eyes trained firmly on the screen, where Mark Wahlberg has crashed a transformer into a Bud Light truck and is angrily drinking a Bud Light about it.

‘It just being us? I just mean… After so long running the Hale home for stray degenerates…’ Stiles prods Derek’s thigh with his toes, to prove his levity. It’s predictably, deliciously firm. 

Derek smirks. ‘Like you haven’t been head of the Stilinski institute for clueless waifs, the past few years.’ 

Stiles laughs and prods at Derek’s thigh again, because Derek didn’t rip his toes off the first time so he figures he’s allowed. ‘Fuck off,’ he says lightly. Then, ‘Guess that makes us the original waif and stray, huh?’

‘Mhm.’ Derek looks over at him, eyes dark in the low light, beneath his thick lashes. ‘But don’t take that as an invitation to make more dog jokes.’

Stiles snorts. ‘My question still stands, though. Do you mind that… everyone’s gone?’ He bites his lip. It has to hurt, Stiles thinks, having a pack and then losing them, after all that happened with Derek’s family. Then Derek gets his uncle and sister back only for them both to leave the first chance they get. He waits for Derek’s jaw to clench, waits for his shoulders to go stiff with tension, braces for an angry retort because under no circumstances does Derek do feelings.

He’s not prepared for the sidelong glance Derek gives him, or the muttered, ‘Not right this minute, I don’t.’

‘Oh.’ Stiles ducks his head, absurdly pleased. 

‘You know,’ Derek says conversationally, ‘this may be the worst movie I’ve ever watched.’ 

‘I know, right? Isn’t it awesome?’ Stiles beams and turns back to the screen, only making a token protest when Derek makes a grab for the bag of chips, and they wind up watching the rest of the movie with Stiles listening in amusement as Derek mutters snide little comments about _transformium_ and _robot dinosaurs_ and it’s actually so adorable Stiles wants to kiss his face all over.

‘I might never forgive you for that.’ 

‘Ehhh,’ Stiles shrugs easily. ‘You’ve forgiven me for worse.’ 

Derek wrinkles his perfect little nose. ‘I can’t remember anything worse than that.’ 

‘Oh my god, shut up. You said this exact same thing after I made you watch the second movie, and you forgave me for that.’ 

‘Which one was the second movie?’

‘The one with the robot balls.’ 

‘Ugh. God, I forgot about the balls of steel.’ Derek slumps down among the pillows. ‘I must have forgotten to wreak my deadly revenge on you because I was too busy saving your ass. It’s alright, I’ll wreak exponentially more revenge whenever I get around to it.’

‘Hey, now!’ Stiles sits up, affronted. ‘I think you’ll find that _I_ was saving _your_ ass! And dude, it’s Christmas! Season of goodwill and not kicking our friends’ asses! But if it makes you feel better, you get next pick.’

Derek huffs. ‘Die Hard. Obviously. It’s Christmas.’

‘Yes!’ Stiles sits up to high five Derek, who admittedly is still not a natural, so it sort of hurts, but hey, at least he tried. ‘You’re actually way cooler than I’ve given you credit for all these years.’ 

‘Took you long enough to figure it out,’ Derek grumbles. ‘Aren’t you meant to be some sort of genius?’

‘Well I mean it’s all relative. Scott’s the coolest dude in the world, so you suffered in comparison of course. And you were hella mean to me for forever, so your coolness wasn’t, like, immediately obvious, no. But now I’m at college my horizons have expanded and I’ve realised that wow, are there a lot of asshats in the world. And not just the supernatural kind who are trying to kill you and eat your skin, or whatever.’ Stiles clamps his mouth shut, realising belatedly he’s said way more than he meant to. He hunches over to pull the hems of his khakis down over the thin sliver of skin that’s been revealed above his socks, since hiding his skin has become an automatic defence mechanism now, but he can’t avoid the feeling Derek’s eyes on him.

‘Stiles… Is something up with college?’

He forces a grin. ‘Nah, man. I was just running my mouth, you know how I am. Mouth engages before brain.’ 

‘Stiles.’

‘Derek.’

‘Is someone bothering you?’ Derek sits up a little. ‘Do you need me to make someone into mittens?’

Stiles huffs a laugh. ‘No, dude.’ He scrubs a hand through his hair distractedly. ‘Let’s just watch the movie, yeah?’

Derek regards him for a long moment before relenting. ‘Okay.’ 

Stiles gets the movie set up and then comes and sits back beside Derek, a shade further away than before. He’s determined to actually watch the movie this time and not just creep on Derek’s oblivious gorgeousness, which is why he’s a little surprised when he does finally allow himself to glance up to find Derek quite a bit closer than he remembers.

At first it seems like an accident, but Derek doesn’t move. Suddenly there's unexpected brush of fingertips on Stiles' shoulder, and he startles in a deeply uncool way, making Derek pull his hand back like he’s been burned. 

‘No, dude, wait. It’s okay,’ Stiles whispers. ‘I get it. Scott’s basically in my lap for an hour whenever we see each other these days. Not that I’m saying you should be in my lap or anything, I just, uh. It’s fine. You know?’

He could swear he sees a flash of Derek’s perfect, imperfect teeth as Derek smiles in the near-darkness, which distracts him enough that he’s not expecting the fingertips to return up near his neck, brushing warm, maddening circles into the sensitive skin under Stiles’ ear. 

He loves these little moments where Derek’s ice-wolf exterior cracks or shifts, and gives a glimpse of the marshmallow-soft dork that Stiles is now confident, after all these years, lies within. It’s happened more often in Stiles’ near vicinity over the past year or so, with Derek cracking a stupid joke or brushing sheepishly up against Stiles’ arm to satisfy his need to scent like a big puppy. Just nothingy, precious little moments.

Stiles thinks he remembers every single one.

He’d thought Derek was stupid-hot from the very first time Derek had yelled at him, but if he looks back he can probably measure how his feelings have changed and grown against this constellation of moments, like the plotting points on a graph.

Interspersed among them are other moments; moments of deep, wrenching realisation about how _much_ he might possibly feel for Derek. Moments where one of them was leaving, or lost. 

All the mundane, extraordinary moments of his life that Stiles finds he wants to tell Derek about afterwards, only to be struck hard by the absence of him.

And now this – possibly off the chart entirely – moment, with Derek’s fingers on him and the silence buzzing velvet-soft between them.

His stomach twists with heat, but he’s careful not to move. He stays so, so still, breathing carefully, luxuriating in every touch. It’s heavenly. 

The heat spreads through him, and by the time Bruce Willis’s tank top has taken a beating it’ll never come back from, Stiles feels relaxed enough to say, ‘I just always thought college would be my time, you know? Like I’ve been waiting for it for so long. I’d finally meet my people, the rest of my glorious nerd brethren, and I’d, like, make friends and get laid and… start my life. And it just…’

‘Hasn’t been what you thought?’ Derek’s voice is soft, almost gentle.

‘Not at all. It’s not even really the other kids, it’s… It’s me. I’m not like them. I was the weird, nerdy loser even before I devoted the better part of my late teens to being Scott’s sidekick while he saved the town from a wide variety of supernatural grossness. And like, when I was doing that at least I had Scott, you know? I had Lydia. And… And you. There were people that got it. And now they’re not there, and nobody gets it. All they have to worry about is where the next keg party is and whether they can get away with another couple days without washing their undies.’ 

‘No,’ Derek interjects gravely. ‘The answer to that question is always no.’ 

Stiles laughs weakly and settles back a little further into Derek’s touch. ‘It's been years, now. It's just... never gonna be what I wanted, is it? The thing is… I get mad. Because it _could_ have been everything I’d wanted. It _should_ have been. But I’m so fucked up. Like, what am I supposed to say to the cute girl in class when she says ‘hey, I’m Sarah and I was head of Math Club at my high school’. Like… ‘Oh hi, I’m Stiles and I was possessed by an evil spirit!’' He groans in frustration. _'Fuck.’_

The relief of being able to talk freely about this stuff makes his head spin a little, so lets himself fall back among Derek’s pillows - fall apart a little, even - safe in the knowledge that Derek is right there to help him get himself back together. Because Derek knows everything. He doesn't have to keep up any pretence, doesn't have to constantly come up with lies to explain away his idiosyncrasies. Derek gets it. Derek gets _him._

He swallows hard, trying to control the shame that floods him when he remembers the look on Math-Club-Sarah’s face when she’d pulled his shirt over his head and seen the scars that mar his skin; something sharp, between horror and disgust, that had swiftly punctured the bubble of arousal in his gut, and sparked a pretty epic panic attack in the hallway outside her room after he’d muttered something about a car accident and fled. The next day he’d gone to her dorm room to apologise and had overheard her and her friends speculating about whether he’d been bullied or attacked by animal or what. It had been long enough since anyone had literally held a pity party for him that it had hit him particularly hard in the ego. He hasn’t tried to get down with anyone since. 

He forces his voice past the choking shame. ‘It’s not like I aspire to be _normal,_ or whatever. I just, uh. I thought this was when things were supposed to get better. I thought I’d find my _groove._ But instead I feel like I’m some sort of fraud, living two lives. It’s all out of focus.’

Derek squints at him a little. ‘You were just a kid when this all started. You don’t think about forever. Until you do.’ 

‘I guess.’ Stiles covers his face with his hands and groans. ‘God, here I am complaining about this to you. I’m such a selfish prick.’

Derek chuffs. ‘Come on, Stiles… You’re the least selfish person I’ve ever known.’

Stiles presses the heels of his hands harder into his eyes, overwhelmed, suddenly, by something big and achey-sweet building in his chest and behind his eyes.

‘Besides,’ Derek says, ‘I might be doing okay now, but I can’t do this alone, forever. For one thing… hunters don’t like lone werewolves, code or not. We both know what can happen.’

‘Oh my god.’ The full, sweet feeling dies in Stiles’ chest, replaced by sticky, cloying nausea. He’ll never forget the look in Scott’s eyes when he’d told him about the Argents and the omega werewolf. He doesn’t know how he's somehow missed the inherent danger in Derek being alone. He supposes he’d still thought of Derek as being part of a pack, but… He’s not, really. ‘What… what will you do?’

Derek shrugs. ‘I’ll probably travel again. Track down Cora. See if her boyfriend’s pack would maybe want me.’

 _I want you,_ Stiles thinks. _I want you._ He bites it back. ‘Have you thought any more about joining Scott’s pack?’

‘I might,’ Derek says, lips quirking. ‘If the alternative is death by dicing.’ 

‘Well, yeah,’ Stiles elbows him. ‘You can’t die now, after everything. You just got nice, dude.’

Derek laughs wryly. ‘I don’t intend on dying. Haven’t checked everything off my bucket list yet.’

Stiles sits up on one elbow. ‘Dude, you have a bucket list? Me too! What’s on yours? We should compare!’ 

Derek quirks a brow at him. ‘Yeah, I don’t think so.’ 

‘Oh come on, man!’ Stiles bounces a little, making Derek bounce, too. ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours!’ He winks salaciously and isn’t surprised when Derek tuts and shoves him in the chest. ‘Rude,’ he pouts. ‘Just mine, then… Uhm, let’s see…’ He folds his arms behind his head and stares up at the ceiling. ‘Number twenty seven… learn to juggle.’ He doesn’t need to turn his head to know that Derek is giving him the least impressed stare of all time. ‘Number twenty two; jet pack flight. I would seriously be more epic than Iron Man, so just, yes. Number eighteen; be on the Ellen show…’

Derek snorts, beside him. ‘Seriously? Isn’t your bucket list supposed to be at least a _little_ attainable?’

‘Shut up, it’s _my_ bucket list and if I want to fill it with insanely unattainable things then that’s my prerogative!’ 

‘I dread to think what your top ten is going to be,’ Derek says dryly. ‘What, volcano surfing? Yak skiing? Extreme ironing?’

And for some reason (maybe because ridiculous/ferocious is sort of Stiles’ jam), marshmallow-dork Derek Hale saying the words ‘extreme ironing’ turns out to be the tipping point; the insistent warmth in Stiles’ chest returns, more fierce, more urgent, and it propels him forwards until he brushes their mouths together. 

They both freeze. 

Oh, god. 

Stiles has leaned in and pressed his actual lips against Derek’s actual lips (his soft, lovely, perfect lips, he now knows) like that’s just something they do, and Derek is just lying there, completely still, and oh _god._

Stiles pulls back, slowly. He runs his tongue over his lower lip even though he knows it looks shameless because that taste of Derek is all he’s going to get, so he’s going to savor it even if Derek judges him for it. He clears his throat, drops his eyes to the comforter. ‘So that was number two on the bucket list,’ he says, a little hoarsely, by way of explanation. 

Derek blinks. ‘What… was number one?’

‘Uh…’ Stiles puffs out his cheeks and exhales slowly, to try to hide his embarrassment. ‘Go to boot camp and get all sexy, so you might let me get to number two.’ 

He’s not really kidding at all, but he’s deliberately flippant to try to divert Derek attention from the painful rawness of this particular nerve. 

Which is why it feels like a punch in the heart when Derek laughs. 

Stiles hadn’t thought he could be more humiliated than Math-Club-Sarah, but now he knows better. His cheeks and ears and neck burn with it, and it floods his fingers and makes them shake even when he doesn’t want them to. He rears backwards, mentally working through how much he’s had to drink and whether he’s okay to drive because he really needs to leave, like, five minutes ago. 

‘Hey, it could happen,’ he protests weakly, not meeting Derek’s eyes. ‘Not the you and me thing, I’m aware that would be seriously out-kicking my coverage. The getting sexy, thing. It could happen. Someone will totally want me, one day.’

He tries to sound like he believes it, but he knows it isn’t enough. He knows Derek hears the lie.

Jesus _god._ He jumps to his feet and scrabbles for his phone. 

‘Stiles…’ Derek is on his feet, too, on the other side of the bed, and he’s saying something but Stiles can mostly only hear the pulse of blood hammering in his ears.

‘I should really go,’ he says, a little desperately. ‘This whole thing was… a mistake. I’m sorry about the, uh, the movie, and the…’ He flails a hand around, knocking over the pile of clean laundry. He watches in despair as clean socks tumble to the floor. ‘Fuck. Sorry about that too. And the kiss. I just. Yeah.’

‘Stiles! Stiles, hold on a second.’ Derek is between him and the door now, his hands out in front of him, palm up like he’s trying not to spook him, which just adds to Stiles’ mortification. He looks around, a little frantically, cursing himself out mentally for his bad habit of kicking his shoes off randomly and not putting them somewhere neat and near and ready for a quick escape.

‘Stiles…’ Derek says, low and urgent. ‘Wait.’ 

He’s much too close now, and damn him he smells so good, and he’s reaching for Stiles but Stiles manages to duck under his arm with a little noise of triumph when he finally spots his shoes. He gets as far as shoving his feet into them, not caring that they’re crushed and warped in his haste, when Derek wraps a hand around his wrist and holds him still. 

He looks distressed, wild-eyed. ‘What the fuck, Stiles? You kiss me and now you’re just gonna run out on me?’ 

And yeah, Stiles does feel a little bad actually, now that he thinks about it. It’s not like Derek’s had stellar relationship luck or anything, on any level, and it’s a dick move to duck out on him.

He swallows hard, staring at Derek’s lean, strong hand wrapped around his wrist. ‘Sorry.’

Derek shifts on his feet. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. I was shocked, because…’ He closes his eyes briefly, like he’s summoning up courage. ‘Because how can you think you’re not sexy?’

That startles a noise from Stiles – the sort of noise that’s the verbal equivalent of someone falling on their face. 

‘And I’m sorry,’ Derek continues, ‘that I froze up when you kissed me. It was only because it was unexpected…’ He ducks his head to catch Stiles’ eyes. ‘Not because it was unwelcome.’

Stiles feels very much like he might pass out. ‘Oh. What? Wait. What?’

Derek just looks at him, solid and steady.

‘Okay,’ Stiles says, blinking rapidly. ‘Okay. You sit tight, I’m gonna call Deaton…’ 

‘Huh?’ Derek brows draw together in confusion. 

‘Because clearly werewolves and aniseed don’t mix. It must be having some sort of crazy hallucinogenic effect on you, right now.’ 

Derek shakes his head. ‘No, Stiles.’ 

‘Well what the fuck was in that eggnog, then? Because I’m a hundred and twelve per cent sure that the only way to explain this is that one of us is high as balls right now. Wait, are you a nitrous oxide dream?’

‘Would it be a good dream?’ Derek asks, a smile at the corner of his eyes. He hasn’t let go of Stiles’ wrist. 

‘Yeah…’ Stiles breathes. ‘But, um. Excuse my bluntness here, but I think I speak for basically everyone you’ll ever meet for the rest of your life when I say, have you lost your fucking mind? Is there not some Victoria’s Secret model with a phd and a nobel peace prize waiting for you on a private island in the Caribbean somewhere?’

Derek continues to stare at him in what appears to be genuine bafflement, and then he does the head tilty thing again and that is _it._

‘Oh _fuck it,’_ Stiles mumbles, stumbling in against Derek’s chest and crushing his mouth back against Derek’s. 

This time Derek is expectant and eager, running his free hand up Stiles’ arm to cup his face, pulling him closer so he can explore Stiles’ mouth without hesitation. The wet heat of him, combined with the rasp of his stubble against Stiles’ skin is so fucking perfect that Stiles’ brain blue screens right out. 

‘Fuck,’ he whispers as he pulls away to catch his breath, a little in awe at how not-awkward the kissing seems to be (the one time he and Scott tried making out it’d been hella awkward, and kissing Lydia had felt like kissing a sister).

He gradually realises that at some point he’s slung his arms around Derek’s neck, which has rucked his t shirt up and exposed a little of his belly. He tries to be super casual as he reaches to tug the fabric back down into place. 

Derek’s eyes flicker over him. ‘C’mere.’ He pulls lightly on Stiles’ wrist. 

‘Why?’

‘Just… come with me. Please?’

Stiles allows himself to be manoeuvred over to the other side of the room, in front of the window which is wide and overlooks the dark silhouette of the Preserve, perfect and still under a sky studded with diamonds. 

Derek hooks his chin over Stiles’ shoulder and wraps his arms around his stomach, cradling him from behind, warm and broad. They’ve never done this, never held each other, but Derek’s hands curve around Stiles’ waist, and Stiles is tall enough that he can rest his head in the crook of Derek’s neck, and it’s so insanely perfect that it’s perfectly insane.

‘Look…’ Derek breathes into his ear.

‘I’m not gonna howl at the moon, if that’s what you’re after,’ Stiles says with a smile. 

‘No, not at that. At you.’ Derek nods at the window, and when Stiles refocuses he realises he can see their reflection mirrored back at him, pale and ghostly against the dark Preserve outside.

‘I’d rather look at you,‘ he breathes, turning his head to press kisses against Derek’s jaw, nuzzling into the stubble like he’s wanted to for so long. 

‘Stiles,’ Derek says, the muscles in his neck contracting against Stiles’ lips. He slides one of his hands up from Stiles’ stomach to cup his chin and gently turn his head back to the window, letting his fingers spread wide of the pale expanse of Stiles’ throat. 

‘Look at _you._ How can you think you’re not sexy?’ Derek’s voice burns down Stiles’ spine.

‘You mean,’ he shoots back, a little breathless, ‘skinny, defenceless me?’

Derek arches an eyebrow. ‘Maybe when you were sixteen, but…’ He smooths his hands over Stiles’ shoulders and down his chest. ‘You’re not sixteen any more, Stiles.’

‘You hated me when I was sixteen…’

‘Yeah. You were fucking infuriating. Still are.’ 

‘You don’t hate me now, though?’ 

‘No. Because… I don’t know, Stiles. It’s… I just wanna protect you, but. You have a mind like a box of fireworks, and hands that won’t stop playing with matches. I never know what to expect, with you. I don’t know how to keep you safe. And I... care about you, so much. The thought of you getting hurt scares me.’

Stiles catches his hand when it sweeps up and toys with the neckline of his t shirt. He swallows. ‘You’re right. Your bones knit together, your skin heals. It’s not like that for me. I’m… damaged.’ 

Derek’s arms tighten around him. ‘Trust me.’

Stiles turns wordlessly in Derek’s arms, finding his mouth in a messily, urgently, and Derek responds in kind. 

He’s so scared he's shaking. A soundtrack of rejection plays in his head; friends whispering, girls talking, Derek laughing. He squares his shoulders and pushes it down, because Stiles might be merely a puny, squishy human, and he might get scared as shit about stuff, but he plunges ahead and does it anyway. Or at least he used to be that guy, before college. Derek makes him feel enough like himself again that he pulls back enough to shrug his plaid shirt off his shoulders, baring his forearms, and he feels sick from the fear of it, but he figures he might as well get this over with. He wants to rip off the band aid. See what the guy whose life literally burned down thinks of the guy who can’t help but play with metaphorical matches. Derek’s protests of ‘Stiles, wait, you don’t have to-’, are muffled through the fabric of his t shirt as he tugs it over his head, and then he’s standing there, bare from the waist up.

Stiles glances back over his shoulder. His skin is cast in smoky grey by the window, like a negative of himself, and the pattern of scar tissue on his back glows opalescent.

He sees the bite mark across his shoulder, the slash marks over his ribs. Marks from teeth, and talons and blades. The long, thin scar from where he unthinkingly ripped a venom-dipped arrow from his flesh, too impatient to wait for Deaton to do it, snakes down and around one of his biceps. 

Derek’s eyes are liquid dark in the window reflection, but Stiles can guess what he’s thinking. Fighting down the nausea, he turns so that Derek can see the front of his torso, where his skin is cross-hatched with raised ribbons of scar tissue. His forearms are marred with myriad small, defensive wounds, and he knows if Derek were to look lower he’d find a chunk of flesh missing from one thigh. He’s lucky, the doctors had said, that there wasn’t tendon damage. The mess was wholly cosmetic. He’s had a hard time feeling grateful.

He tips his chin up. ‘So now you know,’ he says bitterly. ‘Now you know.’ He wants to grab his shirt, but Derek’s arms are firm around him, holding him in place, eyes holding his steadily in the reflection. 

He waits.

‘You,’ Derek says, ‘are so _fucking_ beautiful.’

Stiles' cheeks burn. ‘Shut up. I’m fucking broken…’ 

‘No, you’re not. You’re not. You’re perfect, Stiles. Look…’ Derek traces the scar on his abdomen with a feather-light fingertip. Stiles thinks that if he weren’t hyperventilating right now it would probably feel really nice. ‘I have this bowl… Laura made it when she was in kindergarten. Just a strange little thing made of clay. The heat of the fire made it shatter, but I saved the pieces. I don’t know why.’ 

Stiles isn’t entirely sure where Derek’s going with this, but he feels like he’s probably being told something important, something he should listen to properly - _would_ listen to properly if only Derek’s fingertips would stop dancing so distractingly over his navel. 

‘You know,’ Derek murmurs into the shell of Stiles’ ear, ‘Satomi taught me that in Japan when something gets broken… like a bowl, or a plate… they fix it using gold.’

‘Oh my god,’ Stiles chokes out a half-laugh, 'please tell me you're about to go all Patrick Swayze on me and do naked pottery...'

Derek ignores him, continuing on with his torturous exploration. ‘They repair things with gold to remind themselves that we are stronger… more beautiful… for having been broken.’

Stiles stares at the reflection of Derek in the window, breath catching in his chest.

‘You don’t know how much it kills me that you ever got hurt at all. But these…’ he splays one hand wide across Stiles’ stomach and the other across his chest. ‘These are marks of how brave you are. How selfless.’

‘How stupid?’

Derek laughs, a warm vibration into Stiles’ skin. ‘Yeah. And out there is the reason why. All the people you saved. The town. The Preserve. Your dad. Scott. Me.' 

Stiles feels light-headed with how _much_ it all is, eyes prickling with hot tears that he refuses to let out to smudge the moment.

‘I know it’s been hard for you…’ Derek continues. ‘That you’ve felt like no-one sees you. But I see you. Your strength and your soul and your heart. And I think… you’re plenty sexy.’

He pulls Stiles back against him, just for a second, but it’s long enough that Stiles can feel the hot, hard length of him pressing against his ass. 

He twists his head to look up at Derek's hooded eyes and bitten-pink lower lip. 

‘Sorry,’ Derek says. ‘I’m not suggesting anything, I just. Want you to know that you’re wanted.’

The words turn Stiles’ spine to liquid, and he lets his whole weight rest back against Derek’s solidity. He brings up an arm and winds it round Derek’s neck, holding him close. 

‘Trust me,’ Derek says again, and it’s an echo of when they were in the pool all those years ago, only now Derek is the one holding Stiles’ head above the water. 

Stiles covers one of Derek’s hands with his own, and guides it to the waistband of his chinos.

‘Derek,’ Stiles murmurs, trying to infuse the words with everything he feels. _I want you, too. I trust you. Touch me._

He seems to have been successful, judging by the sound Derek makes. It’s just a little, choked off noise but it’s pure lust and that, more than anything, is what finally makes Stiles believe him. 

_’More,’_ Derek growls into his neck, sliding the button of Stiles’ pants through the hole and dipping his fingers under waistband. ‘Say it more.’

‘Derek,’ Stiles whispers through a smile, because it’s such a damned possessive werewolf _Derek_ thing to ask. He turns his face and presses his nose into the curve of Derek’s cheek, letting out an embarrassingly desperate whimper when Derek pushes his pants and boxers down far enough to wrap long, warm fingers around him. ‘Derek, oh my _god…’_

Derek licks his palm and wraps his hand around him again, working him expertly, which Stiles feels unreasonable pangs of jealousy about until he realises that Derek is listening to _his_ reactions, to his breath and his heartbeat, feeling the way Stiles’ fingers dig into his when he applies pressure just right, and oh god is that ridiculously sexy thing to realise…

‘Jesus _fuck_ Derek,’ he grits out when Derek snakes his free hand up to play with Stiles’ nipples, and Derek fucking _growls_ which is way hotter than it should be. 

’Oh god, it’s so fucked up that your growling gets me this hard,’ Stiles bitches breathlessly.

Derek laughs. It’s so gorgeous that Stiles wants to record it and have that be the new soundtrack in his head. ‘It’s so fucked up that your talking gets _me_ this hard,’ he says, and okay, Stiles is definitely recording that, sometime. 

He groans, and tightens his fingers in Derek’s hair as he throws his head back to rest on Derek’s shoulder. 

Derek meets his eyes in the window as he lowers his mouth and suckles a possessive hickey onto the pale skin of his neck. It’s too good, too much, and the pain-pleasure sends Stiles spilling hot over Derek’s fingers. 

‘Oh my god,’ he manages, kitten weak. ‘Do you need…?’

‘No,’ Derek shakes his head. ‘I already did.’

Stiles gulps a little because damn, that’s hot. 

He takes a second to check out the seriously comprehensive hickey while Derek scents his neck and holds him, and generally looks absolutely, perfectly… content. 

Stiles points an accusatory finger at him in the mirror. ‘You’ve _wanted_ this…’ he says in disbelief. 

‘Yes.’ 

‘You never said.’ 

‘You play with fire,’ Derek says carefully. ‘I wasn’t sure if I could handle it without it turning me crazy. You don’t deserve that. I wanted to work on myself, some, before I tried talking to you. And I've been trying to.’

‘Soo…’ Stiles muses, stoically ignoring the fact that he’s naked in all the ways that count in front of a window. ‘What you’re saying is, I’m number two on your ‘to do’ list?’

‘Bucket list,’ Derek corrects. ‘You’re number one on my ‘to do’ list.’ 

Stiles laugh comes unbridled from somewhere deep in his chest, some place loosened by relief and unburdening. ‘Ah, my protégé…’ he sighs, dreamily. ‘You show such immense potential.’ 

Derek huffs and nudges him toward the bed while he goes to wash up. Stiles stands there, feeling oddly wound up about whether to shuck his pants or not. He’s mid-dither when he notices a gleam of gold on Derek’s nightstand. It’s a bowl, a small, misshapen thing made out of white clay. Stiles picks it up gently, scared to breath on it too hard lest he break this precious thing. It’s clearly been made by a child, and has been broken and put back together again, but it's no less lovely for it. Rivulets of gold criss-cross it, marking out the fault lines, high-lighting the flaws, but they somehow make it _more._ It’s… really sort of beautiful. 

He puts the bowl back down carefully and, with a deep breath, kicks off his pants, slipping between Derek’s sheets in just his boxers. Derek comes back wearing the same, pulling him in against his chest, and finally they’re skin to skin. 

Stiles sighs, sated and sleepy. He’s felt so strange and out of context, these last few months… No. Longer. His whole life, really. But here and now, in Derek’s world – in _their_ world – in this brand new moment they’re making – Stiles improbably, impossibly, makes sense. Stiles belongs. 

‘We missed all the rest of Die Hard,’ he whines, poking Derek in the stomach, trying not to ogle at the way it makes the muscles there jump. 

‘We can watch it tomorrow.’ 

‘Right! Oh but it's Christmas tomorrow,’ Stiles says, biting at his lip. ‘My dad shouldn’t be alone.’ 

‘Okay.’ Derek’s eyes shutter and Stiles’ heart sinks. 

‘What’s wrong?’ He fights the urge to fold his arms over his chest. 

Derek’s jaw works a little as he figures out what it is he wants to say. ‘You said Scott and Lydia are away, your dad’s working…'

‘Right...?’ Stiles frowns, trying to understand.

‘Look I don’t want to ask,' Derek sighs, 'but I sort of have to… Are you just here because there’s no one else?’

Stiles stares at him, incedulous. ‘Of course.’

Derek flinches away, just a little, before he stops himself, and Stiles can see his jaw tensing up so he smooths his fingers over it, holding Derek’s face steady so he can catch his gaze.

‘Of course, you idiot,’ he says, slow and clear. ‘Of course there’s no one else. For years now, Derek, there hasn’t been anyone else. There’s only you. Trust me, too. As much as you can. I’ll earn the rest.’

Derek brushes a kiss to the heel of his hand. ‘I do. I’m just... not used to it. I’m doing better but I don’t know if it’s enough.’

‘Did we not just establish that I’m the biggest glutton for punishment in Beacon Hills?’ Stiles teases, earning himself a smile. ‘Look…’ He takes Derek’s arm and drapes it across his own waist. ‘I’m not fixed either. Just because I can lie here with my shirt off and not have a panic attack… It doesn’t mean I won’t, the next time. It doesn’t mean I won’t get nightmares, or feel sick with myself when I have to lie to my roommate about why Scott can drink twelve beers and not fall down. I’m not expecting you to fix me, and I know I can’t fix you either.’

Derek’s mouth twists, turning his face young and vulnerable, and it hits Stiles that Derek really does have scars that separate him from the rest of the world, just like Stiles. His are concealed beneath the surface of his skin, true, but the damage has still been done. 

Stiles presses his fingertips ever so slightly into Derek’s jaw, trying to underpin the lightness of his next words with the certainty of his touch. ‘But, like, I’m certainly not opposed to having a smoking hot boyfriend by my side while I figure out fixing myself…’

Derek presses a smile into the pillow. ‘Me neither.’ 

'It's not just werewolves that need an anchor, I think.' Stiles presses his forehead to Derek's. 'Be mine.'

Derek's answering smile is bright and without hesitation. 'Of course.' 

Stiles doesn’t even try to hold back his stupid-happy grin. ‘Good. So, uh. You ready to be formally introduced as aforementioned smokin' hot boyfriend at lunch tomorrow?’

‘I thought… Tomorrow’s Christmas…’ Derek does his dangerously adorable head tilt.

‘Yeah,’ Stiles snuggles deeper into Derek’s very comfy sheets. ‘So you’re coming to my place, right? You gotta get your birthday present. There’s plenty of food to go round. Besides, no way am I facing my dad alone with this thing on my neck…’

Derek swears under his breath. ‘You can’t just blame it on vampires?’

‘Thought they didn’t exist…’ Stiles says drowsily, fighting to keep his eyes open. 

‘They don’t,’ Derek replies, threading his magical fingers into Stiles’ hair. ‘But your dad doesn’t know that…’

‘You can do whatever you damn well want so long as you never stop doing that…’ Stiles slurs, and he’s pretty sure he hears that beautiful laugh again, just before he falls off the edge off the world and into sleep.

*

Epilogue

*

Stiles turns the key in the jeep’s ignition and waits as she shudders to a halt. The echo of the throaty engine rings out in the space around the car until it’s eventually replaced by familiar ambient noise; the soothing rustle of wind through leaves, and the airy notes of twilight birdsong.

He doesn’t move to exit the car. He doesn’t even move his hands from the steering wheel. He just sits, and breathes in the paint-and-pine scented air, soaking it all in. It’s all so familiar, and so new, and so complicated, his chest aches with it. 

After several minutes, the front door opens, and a figure appears, arches an oh-so-familiar eyebrow at Stiles and then disappears back into the house, leaving the door open.

Stiles grabs for his battered rucksack and slides from the car. He doesn’t bother to lock it. 

He takes the porch steps in a single, graceless bound, and clatters in through the door, kicking off his chucks at the foot of the stairs, next to a small heap of other boots and shoes. He and Derek both prefer to be barefoot whenever possible.

He skids down the corridor in his socked feet, only realising too late that he hasn't entirely thought through the whole issue of stopping, but it's okay because a familiar arm reaches out to catch him, scooping him into a laughing, breathless embrace. 'Easy, Stilinski,' Derek says, his voice rumbling through Stiles' ribcage and straight down to the base of his spine. 'You just got here. Your dad'll kill me if you damage yourself so soon.'

Stiles shrugs cheekily. 'Maybe I knew you'd catch me.'

'Bullshit,' Derek shoots back, which, yeah, is fair.

Stiles just grins and flings his arms around his waist, yanking him in for a kiss. 'The house looks good, by the way.'

'Yeah?' Something flickers over Derek's face. It looks a lot like hope.

'Yeah.' Over the last couple of years Stiles' stuff has gradually filled the bare spots in Derek's life. Stiles has basically inhabited the house during every break from college, which in turn has made Derek finally inhabit the house, too. Stiles loves the old blanket thrown over the now-slightly-less-new couch - the one Derek's mom patch-worked herself and that had barely survived the fire. He loves the wide TV in the living room, now set up for games nights. He loves the popcorn maker in the kitchen, Stiles' birthday gift for Derek last year along with a transformers key-ring. He loves that the key-ring has been quietly added to Derek's keys, which hang on the hooks by the door - right next to Stiles'. Most of all, he loves the pictures that Derek has hung in the hallway - of their family and their friends and their moments. 'You think?'

Derek's lips pull up into a bashful little smile that Stiles wants to kiss, so he does. 'Yeah,' Derek says when he finally pulls away. 'Is that the last of your stuff?' He points in the direction of the jeep.

'Uh huh,' Stiles nods. 'You gonna use your big werewolf muscles to carry it in for me?' He flutters his eyelashes in a way that he hopes is irresistible.

Derek narrows his eyes at him. 'If it's your childhood collection of encyclopedias then no, not a chance.'

'Damn.' Stiles sighs deeply. 'And they say chivalry is dead...'

Derek snorts. 'I made you pizza.'

'Then all is forgiven!' Stiles beams. 'I'll go get the boxes. Don't go anywhere.'

Derek shakes his head. 'Never.'

Stiles huffs exaggeratedly (he knows Derek will relent in a couple of minutes and come and help him), and strips off his plaid over-shirt, feeling a little bubble of happiness rise up in his chest. He still doesn't uncover himself in front of other people, except Scott, because he doesn't want to have to lie to explain the scars away. But it's different here, with Derek - in their home. 

He heads out to the car, glancing back up at the house - at the window of Derek's room that seems so innocuous, now. The memory of that night makes his blood turn icy-hot. He looks down at his exposed forearms.

He knows now, with the help of a therapist that he'd sought a while back - that Derek isn't even looking _past_ the scars. He's not ignoring them, he doesn't love Stiles in spite of them. He really thinks they're beautiful. And Stiles can almost see it, too, through his eyes. His skin is a love letter to his family and his friends. To Derek. A road map that will always bring him home to them. And he can't be ashamed of that.

**Author's Note:**

> 'She had a mind like a box of fireworks, and hands that played recklessly with matches.' 
> 
>  
> 
> _Michael Faudet_


End file.
